


Smell goes first, and fingers wisp away

by Bright_Days (Mirradin)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-27
Updated: 2014-04-27
Packaged: 2018-01-20 23:30:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1529798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mirradin/pseuds/Bright_Days
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prussia is fading, and there's only one way for him to stop it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Smell goes first, and fingers wisp away

He goes to France first. Partly because it's _France_ and France is the obvious first stop for (hah) this kind of issue. Partly it's because it's _Francis_ , and the two have them have known each other in bed and out of it, across the battlefield and beside each other on it, in war and peace and backhanded trade arrangements, down long centuries until very little surprises them.  
  
Which is why France nods with all the solemnity Prussia expected of him, rising from the table. "Of course, my friend." There is no frivolity or cheer in his voice. Prussia would punch him if there was. He _needs_ an excuse to punch something right now, but France's quiet acceptance isn't giving him one. "For you, anything."  
  
It's not bad. Not the best he's ever had, but not bad. Francis keeps it painless and doesn't try to make it a romantic encounter; in return, Prussia doesn't claw his back up.  
  
***  
  
Spain is his second visit. He's out of France's bed before the cock crows, and when the sun rises he's on the train south, sipping moodily at watery train-station coffee and resolutely ignoring the empty feeling in his ass.  
  
The coffee is crap. He dips his thumb into it, waits thirty seconds, and lifts it out, watching the skin redden with dispassionate curiosity. The heat still feels distant. Like it's coming through someone else's skin.  
  
Spain meets him at the station, and Prussia can tell from the crease in his brow that he already knows. France, he thinks, the bastard must have called, and the sudden flash of rage would have him punching the wall if he wasn't so depressingly aware that he wouldn't feel the sting of his knuckles splitting open.  
  
"Gilbert!" Anto-- _Spain_ peers worriedly into his face, safely outside punching range. The jackass. If he's going to come down here _in public_ and act like Prussia's some kind of invalid, the least he can do is let Prussia knock a few of his teeth out in return.  
  
"Shut up," he hisses, shouldering past his friend. "Where's your car?" Can he just get this _over with_?  
  
Spain chatters all the way back to the house. He stops veering toward the topic of Prussia's condition after Prussia threatens to break his fingers and walk out of the country after the ensuing car wreck.  
  
They manage to keep avoiding it when they arrive by virtue of getting lunch. Prussia doesn't really get hungry these days, and taste is a distant memory, but he attacks the paella as though it's as delicious as he remembers. Fuck if he's showing any weakness now.  
  
"Do you like it?" Spain asks. Probably searching for another harmless subject.  
  
Prussia swallows defiantly. "Yeah."  
  
Spain's smile doesn't vanish, but his voice gains an edge. "You've never liked spicy food, Gilbert."  
  
Well, crap.  
  
Prussia drops the fork, abandoning his pasta. It's probably laced with chili, knowing Spain. When did he remember how to be sharp?  
  
"I'm working on it," he tells his friend. "I'll be back in no time." And then -- because Spain keeps looking at him with those stupid sad eyes -- he snaps, "If you try that trick again next time I come over I'll break your nose, got it?"  
  
That gets Spain to smile, sort of.  
  
It's enough for Prussia to get him out of the kitchen and into bed. It's not bad, again. Spain's more passionate than Francis, and less detached, but, hey. They're friends. It throws him off when Prussia doesn't -- can't -- get hard, but he doesn't stop.  
  
Prussia tries to convince himself that he can feel more this time, but honestly, it's barely a tingle.  
  
***  
  
The next day, he's in Switzerland, knocking on a certain short gun-freak's door. When the door opens and the first thing that emerges is the barrel of a shotgun, he isn't surprised.  
  
The shotgun barrel lowers a couple of inches, and Switzerland glowers up at him. "What do you think you're doing here?"  
  
Prussia simply holds out his hands. Switzerland's eyes widen, and he lets out his next breath in a long hiss. Prussia can't blame him.  
  
His hands have always been pale, it's just how he is. But there's no disguising the difference between the blood-living skin of his palms and the dead, fog-like grey that's claimed the last two joints of his little fingers.  
  
Switzerland shoves the door open. "Come in," he says shortly. Prussia follows without a word.  
  
It's not like France or Spain. Switzerland is professional, verging on rough, and Prussia can just about feel a tingle.  
  
It's also over in less than an hour, and when it is Switzerland rolls out of bed, pulling up his trousers. "Go," he says, not looking at Prussia. "And don't come back." Message: _I've done all I need to. Don't you dare ask me for more._  
  
Silently, Prussia goes.  
  
***  
  
"You need me to do _what_?"  
  
There's no way Romano's shout can't be heard through the walls. Prussia scowls at him. "Keep it down, will you?" he demands.  
  
Romano returns his scowl with an equally ticked-off one. "Is this how all of you German bastards do things? Just barge into people's homes and ask them to --"  
  
"I'm _dying!_ " Prussia all but yells.  
  
Crap. He didn't mean that to come out so loud.  
  
On the other hand, Romano's stopped shouting in favour of staring at him.  
  
With a swallow, Prussia holds out his hands as evidence. They're solid, which is better -- he swore he could see the tips of his fingers starting to wisp away before he left, it was what shocked him into finally going for this -- but the leaching of colour is still obvious.  
  
"I'm fading," he says simply, with a pang in his chest. He forces it down and goes on. "I'm just an -- an idea right now, okay? No lands, nothing to anchor me. I need you, I need _this_ \--" he gestures savagely at the bed "--because that's the only damned thing that can weight me down again." He snorts. "Borrowing other people's reality."  
  
Romano scowls again, but it seems more reflexive than truly angry. "Fine." He starts unbuttoning his shirt. Prussia undoes his trousers and hates that doing it has already become so familiar.  
  
Romano is just as rough as Switzerland, more awkward and less distanced, and he swears the whole time, but for the first time since this started Prussia has proof that it's working, because he can feel a trace of warmth.  
  
***  
  
He decides that he's had enough of Europe for a while, and gets on the next plane over the Atlantic.  
  
He doesn't warn Cuba he's coming, and the last time he was on the island was back during the Cold War, when they were all Communist buddies and friendly teeth-baring visits were a social necessity. Between the lack of transport and the ongoing construction, Prussia spends six hours wandering around the city before he finally spots Cuba's house.  
  
The music thumping out through the window isn't loud enough to hurt his ears, but Prussia bangs extra hard on the door to make sure he's heard over the racket.  
  
Cuba opens it a minute later, leaning his head out with a cloud of wispy smoke. He squints at Prussia in confusion for a moment before raising his eyebrows in recognition. "DDR? The Hell're you doing here?"  
  
Prussia grits his teeth through his least murderous smile. He's not just dying, he's _fading_ , and with that comes a certain lack of freedom to punch people who can help him. "Mind if I come in?"  
  
He explains the problem, tersely, over a mug of alcohol that would probably taste vile if he still had the ability to notice. Cuba snorts, and takes another pull on his cigar.  
  
"Sure," he drawls, blowing out a cloud of smoke. "Glad to help."  
  
"Thanks," Prussia mutters. He pushes his chair back and stands up. "Where's the bedroom?"  
  
"Who needs the bedroom?"  
  
Prussia's hands clench into fists. He breathes in, breathes out, slowly. It's a valid option, he reminds himself. It'll work just as well as baring his ass would.  
  
He gets on the next plane out, for once grateful of his inability to taste.  
  
***  
  
America is loud and boisterous and nearly breaks Prussia's hip when he forgets his strength and Prussia's so busy realising he can feel the pressure that he doesn't realise the bone's about to go.  
  
Canada is quiet and solicitous and insists on making him cardboard-flavoured pancakes before he drives Prussia down to the airport.  
  
***  
  
The Netherlands meets him at the airport. That's probably Canada's doing. Prussia tries to resent it, and can't. He just...doesn't have the energy any more.  
  
He flops back in the passenger seat and watches the town passing by outside the window. There's not enough colour in it. Ain't that the way of the world. He drifts into a daydream of soldiers marching through the streets, old-fashioned uniforms bright, with brass gleaming on their buttons and horses. It's missing the smells of gunpowder and marching-sweat, but daydreams always do.  
  
He misses the car pulling up outside the Netherlands' narrow town-house. The daydream only snaps when the Netherlands unceremoniously yanks the door open.  
  
"I'm only doing this because Canada asked," he says bluntly. "So move."  
  
Prussia glowers up at him and scrambles out of the car. "You're still that pissed off at me?" he demands. "Because I can --" He throttles the rest of that sentence. Not that they don't both know what he was about to say.  
  
"Go somewhere else? Sure you can." The Netherlands shoves his front door open, hooking his coat up on the rack inside the hall. "I don't care. You're nothing to me these days."  
  
It's one of the more miserable encounters.  
  
***  
  
There's no way he isn't going through Scandinavia at some point, so Prussia decides not to dither about and steps onto Denmark's doorstep the next evening.  
  
"Hey!" he calls, banging the knocker enthusiastically against the wood. "I know you're in there, you crazy maniac! Open up!"  
  
The door is wrenched open just as he lifts the knocker back again, yanking it out of his fingers. Denmark blinks at him, glances at the dented wood, and blinks at him again. "You got some problem with my door, man?"  
  
"More likely he's a problem with whoever's bed he just left," a dry and unexpected voice comes from behind him. Prussia resists the impulse to jump as Norway steps into view. Crap, this might be a problem. He generally prefers only having to deal with one person at a time.  
  
Denmark looks quizzically at Norway, who returns it with the most practiced _you're-an-idiot_ look Prussia's ever seen. Denmark tips his head back. " _Oh,_ yeah, right. Come on in." He steps aside to let Prussia inside.  
  
Denmark's only cooked enough for two, so Prussia makes himself a sandwich with a slab of beef. In a moment of crazy humour, he slathers it with both horseradish and chutney. Norway raises an eyebrow at the brown lumps falling out of the sandwich, somehow conveying entire paragraphs without saying a word. Prussia holds his eyes and takes a defiant bite.  
  
Holy crap.  
  
Flavour.  
  
He can barely taste it -- it's not much more than a trace -- but after so many months it's like the sun rising inside his mouth. For a moment he forgets to chew, overwhelmed by the feeling of being able to _taste_ again. He just relishes the salty edge of chutney and the faint burn of horseradish.  
  
There are tears running down his face, he realises. He's crying over a mouthful of bread and beef, and what makes it all the more embarrassing is that he can't stop.  
  
Norway and Denmark are polite enough not to mention it. Or, Norway's polite enough not to mention it, and cuts Denmark off sharply when he tries. Prussia will be grateful for that later, but for now he just eats his sandwich slowly, savouring every bite.  
  
He's sorry when it's gone, and not just because of the taste.  
  
"Well," Norway says, standing up. "Shall we?"  
  
It's actually almost pleasant. Prussia is still grinning inside from the meal, and Denmark and Norway are both old enough to know how this goes. They make sure he's comfortable, take it easy, don't get too intimate. Denmark puts him up for the spare room for the night; Norway, he says with a dopey smile, won't be needing it.  
  
***  
  
Prussia takes the train all the way through Sweden and hops on the ferry, and by lunchtime he's sitting on Finland's sofa with a bottle of vodka in one hand and a sandwich in the other. This one is also laden with everything Prussia could find in the fridge, and as it is it's just about strong enough for him to taste. The vodka might as well be water in his mouth, but he's got a nice buzz going. It helps that Finland's a friendly drunk, and also that Prussia nearly managed to get hard while they were going at it half an hour ago.  
  
"So," Finland says abruptly, giving him an unexpectedly piercing look. "How is it?"  
  
Prussia takes another swig of his vodka. The question, unexpectedly, is less of a sore spot now that he can tell he's beginning to recover. Avoiding certain death does that.  
  
"I can feel more," he says slowly. "Hot and cold, mostly. Taste came back yesterday, but it's pretty weak. Still can't smell anything."  
  
Finland nods, but then goes uncharacteristically silent.  
  
Prussia frowns. "Hey." He swings his bottle lightly at Finland's head. "Say something."  
  
Finland smiles, and rattles of a steam of impossible vowels, ending it with a _so-there_ flourish that transcends all language barriers. Prussia groans.  
  
"Now say something that didn't come out of a waterfall," he demands.  
  
Finland inspects his own drink, drains the last few drops, and sets it down carefully.  
  
Then he says, "You know that I can't anchor you."  
  
Prussia hates being able to feel cold again.  
  
"None of us can," Finland goes on. "Not me, not Denmark, not France. We're not close enough to you, our lands don't match your lands, we don't share enough. We can weight you down, but the only one who can fix you is --"  
  
Prussia slams his bottle down on the table. "Stop it," he growls. "You shut up _right now_!"  
  
"Do you think I like it?" Finland fires back. "You're only --"  
  
Prussia decides that this time, he's allowed to punch someone in the face.  
  
***  
  
It's not true, he tells himself on the way down to Lithuania's place, pressing fingers into his bruises -- Finland's a good fighter -- enough to make them twinge. It's not true. He won't have to do that. It's not true. It's not true. It's _not true_.  
  
He repeats it to himself like a mantra while letting Lithuania press him into the bed. He chants it over and over in his mind when he sucks Poland off. The train goes past a pig farm on the way to Austria's house, and Prussia drowns himself in the faint, distant stink.  
  
He lets Austria put welts across the top of his shoulders, and tells himself that _it isn't true_ \--  
  
***  
  
There's a knock on his bedroom door.  
  
"Yeah?" Prussia calls, putting down his book. He takes another gulp from the bottle of beer beside his bed; it still doesn't taste as strong as it used to, but he'll take what he can get.  
  
Germany steps inside, and one look at his face tells Prussia everything he needs to know.  
  
"No," he says at once, even as the bottom drops out of his stomach. "Fuck, no, West."  
  
"You're my brother," West says, like it's his own sentence of execution. But his head's still up and his eyes are clear; that's the brother Prussia raised, steadfast to the end, no matter what it costs him. "I...Gilbert, if I can save you..."  
  
"No," Prussia repeats blankly, even though he's painfully aware that the bones of him are suddenly screaming for this. "No, West, I'm not doing that to you, _no_ ," why is he off the bed, why are his feet moving, why --  
  
Ludwig touches his shoulder gently, so gently.  
  
***  
  
Prussia can taste soup and smell flowers and feel the wind on his skin.  
  
He doesn't know if he'll ever feel joy again.


End file.
